Suspects

Belial set the heavy book down on the desk before him, the leather cover groaning softly under its weight. The words he'd read lingered in his mind, swirling like leaves caught in a restless wind. Shadows danced across the walls, cast by the flickering ether-lamps that struggled to push back the encroaching darkness.

With a soft groan, he leaned back in his creaking chair, allowing his gaze to wander to the faded ceiling above. The words he'd read swirled in his mind like leaves caught in an autumn gale, refusing to settle into any semblance of order. Among the chaotic thoughts, one question rose to the surface, demanding his full attention:

How did the Archangel Uriel write this if she was dead?

The query gnawed at him, an itch he couldn't scratch. Frowning, Belial sat up straighter, his spine cracking in protest. He reopened the book with renewed determination, long fingers flipping back to the page that described Uriel's demise. The text was unambiguous—Uriel had perished during the war, a sacrifice that had turned the tide of some unknown conflict. Yet here her name stood, proudly credited among the minds that had compiled the knowledge of the 2nd Aeon.

"No dates," Belial muttered, his clawed finger tapping a staccato rhythm against the edge of the parchment. "Convenient." Without a clear timeline, he couldn't determine when this book had been written or whether Uriel's contributions predated her death. It was a puzzle piece that refused to fit, no matter how he turned it in his mind.

As frustration mounted, Belial's thoughts drifted back to his days in the Demon King's library. The memory was a stark contrast to his current surroundings. Where this room was modest—dusty shelves and cramped spaces barely illuminated by the ethereal glow of ether-lamps—the Demon King's archives had been an endless labyrinth of knowledge. Towering shelves stretched beyond sight, each one laden with Books and grimoires that promised untold secrets.

And yet, for all its grandeur, the demon texts had offered but a fraction of the detail on angels compared to what lay before him now. Belial's lip curled in a sneer as he recalled how the demon writings spoke of angels in fragments and riddles, words often scratched out or censored by unseen forces. Even their names were treated as curses, uttered only in hushed tones or through convoluted euphemisms.

The Demon King—so grandiose and full of bravado—had been oddly reticent on the subject. Belial snorted at the memory, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I truly believe that damn Demon King is compensating for something," he mused aloud, his voice echoing in the empty room.

But the amusement was short-lived. A thought struck him, sharp and uninvited, wiping the smirk from his face. 

What if the Demon King he knew had been born the same way as Michael or Raphael? The remnants of ether, the awakening of the primordial factor—what if those stories applied to that person as well?

The idea sent a shiver of unease crawling up Belial's spine. It would explain so much: the Demon King's unnatural strength, his command over realms, and the unspoken fear he inspired even among his own people. Belial's fingers drummed against the table, a nervous tic he'd never quite managed to shake. "That would explain everything," he muttered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

If the Demon King was indeed one of these so-called "kings," then what did that make Belial? Just another pawn in a game far older and far grander than he had ever realized? The thought was both terrifying and infuriating.

Frustration coiled in his chest like a serpent ready to strike. Without thinking, driven by a desperate need for answers, Belial called out to the empty room: "Oracle, help me cross-reference this information."

A faint hum filled the air, and a soft blue glow spread across the space before him. The Oracle system flickered to life, its crystalline screen shimmering into view like a mirage in the desert. Text formed with elegant precision:

[Answer: All of it is mostly true. There is some missing information about the Archangel Uriel. Would you like an answer?]

Belial sat up sharply, his eyes narrowing at the screen. "Yes," he hissed, leaning forward. "Tell me everything you know about Uriel."

The Oracle's text flickered, and then a strange distortion overtook it. It was as if an unseen hand had torn through the very fabric of reality, leaving only chaos in its wake:

[Archangel Uriel is the ###**&*&*#*&####*#&&#&#*&#?]

The distortion spread like a spiderweb crack across a mirror, and the words disintegrated into incomprehensible symbols. Static buzzed faintly through the air, a discordant note in the otherwise silent room. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the disturbance vanished, leaving behind a single, mocking message:

[Error]

[...]

Belial sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So you're blocked from it too," he said, resignation heavy in his voice.

The Oracle pulsed faintly in response, its screen flickering apologetically.

[It appears so. I apologize, Master.]

"It's fine," Belial muttered, though the irritation simmering in his tone belied his words. "It seems everything in this damn world is blocked off because of that stupid war."

The War. It was always the War. The great, sprawling conflict that had ravaged realms and rewritten the laws of existence itself. Countless lives had been shattered, secrets buried, and history erased. But by whom? Belial leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as his mind churned with possibilities.

There was an invisible hand at work; he could feel it. Some higher being—or beings—who had withdrawn information from the world. It reminded him of the angel who had sealed the demon realm, cursing its inhabitants so that no one could speak his name aloud. That power—the ability to silence truth itself—was terrifying. And it wasn't the kind of power just anyone could wield.

Raphael. Michael. Zadkiel.

The names echoed in Belial's mind, a litany of suspicion. They were the only male archangels mentioned in the book. If one of them had the strength to seal away the demon realm, then it stood to reason they could manipulate knowledge too. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a start.

He let out a slow breath, his eyes drifting back to the book that had started this whole mental journey. He'd scoured its pages for answers, but instead, he'd found even more questions. Questions that no mortal or demon seemed capable of answering.

With a grunt of frustration, Belial pushed the book aside. It landed with a heavy thud against the table, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. His hand reached for the next book in the stack: The Crowned Heroes. The title gleamed in gold lettering, its cover embossed with images of swords, shields, and crowns. A story of heroes, perhaps? Champions who had risen to prominence alongside the kings? He could only guess.

Before opening it, he paused, his gaze drawn to the blue Oracle screen still hovering beside him. The word "Error" lingered there, a stark reminder of the forces working against him. It was maddening, being so close to knowledge and yet finding it perpetually out of reach.

"One day," Belial muttered, his voice low and filled with quiet determination, "I'll tear down whatever's blocking this knowledge. Angel, demon, god —I don't care who it is."

The Oracle screen dimmed, as if acknowledging the resolve in his voice.

With a deep breath, Belial opened The Crowned Heroes and began to read. Somewhere, deep down, he hoped these pages would provide answers where the others had failed. And if not—if all he found were more half-truths and mysteries—then so be it. He'd keep searching, keep questioning, until the truth revealed itself.

As he delved into the new book, Belial couldn't shake the feeling that he was on the cusp of something monumental. The pieces were there, scattered and obscured, but present nonetheless. It would take time, patience, and no small amount of cunning to put them all together, but he was determined to see it through.

The ether-lamps flickered, casting long shadows across the room. Outside, the world continued its relentless march forward, oblivious to the revelations being unearthed in this small, cluttered study. But within these walls, Belial stood at the precipice of a truth that could shake the very foundations of reality.

For now, though, the story of heroes awaited him. He settled deeper into his chair, ignoring the protesting creak of old wood, and lost himself in the tales of valor and sacrifice. Each word was a potential key, each paragraph a possible door to understanding. And Belial, ever the patient archivist, was determined to unlock them all.

As the night wore on, the pile of books beside him grew, a testament to his relentless pursuit of knowledge. The Oracle hummed softly in the background, a constant reminder of both the possibilities and limitations of his quest. But Belial paid it no mind, his focus entirely on the words before him.

In the quiet of his study, surrounded by the whispers of ancient Books and the soft glow of ether-lamps, Belial continued his search. For answers, for truth, and for an understanding of his place in a world far more complex than he had ever imagined. The journey ahead was long and fraught with danger, but he was ready to face whatever challenges lay in wait.

After all, in the pursuit of knowledge, even a demon could become a hero of sorts. And as the first rays of dawn began to creep through the dusty windows, Belial allowed himself a small smile. The day might bring new questions, new mysteries, but he would face them head-on.

For in the end, it wasn't just about unraveling the secrets of the past. It was about shaping the future—a future where truth, no matter how painful or inconvenient, would finally see the light of day.

Belial opened The Crowned Heroes and began to read. Somewhere, deep down, he hoped these pages would provide answers where the others had failed. And if not—if all he found were more half-truths and mysteries—then so be it. He'd keep searching, keep questioning, until the truth revealed itself.

For now, though, the story of heroes awaited him.